Today, my sweet Nana would have turned 105 years old. She passed in 2014, yet she is still with me. The older I get, the more I realize what a remarkable woman she was and how much she loved me unconditionally.
I wrote “Party Fowl” as an undergraduate. It captures the essence of our relationship.
Dearest Nana,
Happy birthday. I wish I could treat you to a seafood and champagne birthday supper with all the trimmings like you did for me.
I see you in every butterfly and lipstick-stained coffee cup.
A whiff of coconut oil and sunshine, your signature scent, pricks my heart and waters my cheeks.
When I’m sick, I close my eyes and imagine your cool, gentle touch on my forehead.
You taught me what love is, and though I will never master it as you did, I have something to aspire to.
Thank you for watching over me even now.
Love,
Rebecca
Party Fowl
Thanksgiving was a big deal at our house. My mom and I lived with her parents, and my Nana put out a spread of food we looked forward to all year. I tasted how much we meant to her in every bite. Whether at a restaurant or home, holidays and birthday dinners were Nana’s specialty. She combined my birthday dinner with Thanksgiving one year, and I anticipated the day for weeks. When the happy day arrived, I dressed up in a blue party dress, a crème colored sweater with matching wool stockings, and my black patent Mary Janes. My hair was piled in a loose, tousled bun on top of my head, and I felt like royalty. I twirled and flitted about the house like a fairie, thoroughly enjoying the special day. I occasionally peeked at Nana in the kitchen, listening to the symphony of culinary harmony that always proceeded scrumptiousness. On one visit, I caught a glimpse of the turkey. It was in a giant roasting pan, and Nana was fussing all around it, patting here, sprinkling there. I could not believe the size of that bird.
Nana winked at me. “Tom Turkey is almost as big as you this year.”
November was cold in South Florida when I was growing up. No snow, but cold compared to winter months in Florida these days. Despite the Florida-cold, I passed the time until dinner on the front porch. It was my favorite spot in the world, and I’ve yet to create a space for myself or visit one that made me feel as safe, loved, or at home as the porch haven I trod in my youth.
The porch had been a wrap-around, but sometime before I was born, the part that had wrapped around the sides had been transformed into additional rooms. Although I would have liked to have experienced the original, what remained was more than enough porch for me. The plank floor was a relaxed green and the railings scruffy white. Three wide green wooden steps greeted a sidewalk that shot straight to a sprawling oak tree that reached its loving arms over our house, front yard, and part of the street.
I sat on those steps admiring my old friend, the oak tree, when my cousin, Tony, sat beside me. He was a few years older than me and more like a big brother. His sandy hair covered his green eyes inconsistently.
He grinned at me. “Did you see the turkey?”
“Yes,” I answered as the aroma of the roasted turkey wafted out of the nooks and crannies of the old wooden house.
“You know who that bird is, don’t cha?” He queried.
I frowned, thinking it an odd question. “No.”
“It’s Big Bird,” he casually announced, awaiting my response.
He was not disappointed. Horror clawed its way up my belly as I grew clammy. I burst into tears, and he looked satisfied as he stood up and walked into the house. The cold air penetrated my clothes as I wept into my hands. I don’t know how much time had passed before I heard a quiet voice beside me and acknowledged Nana sitting with me. Her hair was tied back in a navy blue scarf with white polka dots, and her apron was streaked with a mosaic of liquids she contributed to as she wiped her hands. Then, she rested her damp hands on the shoulders of my sweater. They warmed me right away.
“Come on, it can’t be that bad. What’s got the birthday girl so upset?” She inquired as she gently squeezed my shoulders.
I looked through my tear-stained eyelashes at her dear, sympathetic face. I broke the sad news and collapsed into my crossed arms on my lap, sobbing anew.
Nana gave me one last squeeze, told me we’d see about that, and went inside.
By the time Nana called me inside, I had stopped crying and was sulky. My eyes were almost swollen shut, and the fragrance of the turkey made me sick. Nana stood by the television set and told me to watch. She pointed at Big Bird dancing on a float at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. Nana sweetly grinned, her green eyes sparkling, and told me not to worry because Big Bird was fine and we had better prepare to eat and have birthday cake.
Relief engulfed me as I stared in amazement at the Sesame Street float turning a New York City street corner. There he was, big, yellow, and most importantly, alive.
I followed Nana into the kitchen, where she washed my face and then handed me a bowl of cranberry sauce to set on the table. All was right with the world again. As my family gathered around the table to share Thanksgiving dinner that year, I was grateful for birthdays, Nana, and that I wasn’t eating Big Bird.
Nowadays, Florida winters are warmer. I like to think it is because the warmth of Nana’s love could never be extinguished.
